23. Kade

23

Kade

T he Pussycat Lounge is a cross between a high-end Gentleman's Club and a regular nightclub. The decor is sophisticated, the bar staff attractive, and there are several distinct sections to cater to different needs.

The basement thumps with the latest dance tunes. Patrons here are mostly in their 20s and 30s, looking to dance, drink, and pick up a partner for the night.

The main floor is more of a cocktail lounge with podium dancers. There's no overt nudity and the dancers are exotic rather than erotic, but the club thrums with an undercurrent of lust.

Most of the people on this floor are men or couples. Small groups sit at tables, drinking expensive liquor and watching the dancers while waitresses in silver hot-pants and crop tops take their orders.

The club must be raking it in judging by the number of patrons on a weekday night. Most clubs are quiet mid-week.

Since the attack on Tessa, I've looked into Ferrero's business interests a bit more. I assumed this was his club, but it turns out he's only the manager. The club is owned by a shell company, registered in the Cayman Islands. I have no clue who the original owner is, but it's obvious from the multiple layers of ownership, they want to remain anonymous.

It's suspicious but hardly uncommon. Not in our world, anyway.

The club has a VIP lounge upstairs, but it's invitation-only. Only patrons with a club membership, or their guests, get past the hulking security staff.

I could probably swing an invitation, but for now, I'm happy to take a seat at the bar and watch the place. There's no sign of Ferrero, and when I asked the coat-check girl, she said he'd not been in for a week.

I'm tucked away in a corner, with my back to the wall. The bar staff are busy but not rushed off their feet, so when one of them moves closer, I gesture him over for a refill. I may as well enjoy a drink or two. It doesn't look like any of Mashkov's guys are in tonight.

An hour later I'm ready to leave. Being here is a waste of my time and I'm attracting too much attention from the single ladies looking for a hookup. The last woman who sashayed over was way too persistent, and it took a glimpse of my Glock for her to leave me the fuck alone.

Just as I swallow the last dregs of my drink, a familiar figure strides across the club, heading for the VIP section. Mashkov isn't alone, naturally. He never leaves his mansion without two of his more vicious sidekicks. Kirov and Pushkin are psychos. Both have a body count higher than fucking Putin.

They both scan the room, but I look away just before they spot me and their gaze doesn't linger. I'm just another suit in a room full of suits. A guy here to pick up pussy or drink away his sorrows.

I watch out of the corner of my eye as they head up into the VIP section.

Guess it looks like I need to be up there too.

Turns out it's not that difficult to access the VIP area. A couple of hundred bucks and the security guy is happy to let me up there. When I reach the top of the stairs, a hostess shows me to a table and brings me a drink.

Mashkov is nowhere to be seen, but Kirov and Pushkin are hovering near a red door, chatting to a club security guy with an ear-piece and a gun holster, so I assume that's where Mashkov has disappeared. Five minutes later, the pair of them disappear through the door.

I sit for a while in my small private booth with an excellent view of the stage, where a succession of women dance provocatively to sultry music. Several groups of men in suits throw money at the women and laugh raucously.

Very few people go through the red door. Nobody reappears either, which makes me think that whatever is happening behind the door is not part of the general club offerings. A high-stakes poker game, perhaps.

The next time my hostess passes, I call her over.

"Is there something special going on through that door?"

She doesn't meet my eye. "A private party, sir." She collects my glass and walks away.

From the way she looked deeply uncomfortable, this is where bad things happen.

It's late, I'm tired, and it doesn't look like Mashkov will show his face again, so I decide to leave. Just as I'm about to make a move, a familiar figure appears at the top of the stairs.

Dante greets the hostess with a smile. Her smile looks forced in comparison, but she shows him to the red door. Kirov reappears a few moments later and Dante exchanges words with him before passing through the door.

That's interesting. By rights, Mashkov is not our friend. He's a business rival and while we're not at war with the Russians, it wouldn't take much to trigger a conflict.

So why is Dante on familiar terms with Mashkov's right-hand man?

I'm already suspicious of him. Seeing him here only raises more questions, and I don't believe in coincidences.